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How to Become a Cat Owner

And learn what it's like to be a slave...

By Susan ShirleyPublished 5 years ago 3 min read
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I had owned dogs since I was 16 years old. I have always loved dogs and still do. My mum wouldn’t let us have them when we were children–she always asked who would take it for a walk, who would clean up after it? Mum didn’t seem convinced when my brother and I refrained, “We will!” and owning a cat was out of the question because she didn’t like them.

Of course, we were allowed to keep the goldfish that we won at fairs (although perhaps my carelessness in that direction gave her cause to think I wouldn’t be any good at looking after anything larger), and we were once allowed a budgerigar (thinking back, that wasn’t an unmitigated success either… Freddie didn’t live very long.)

Mum even allowed me to bring home one of the school rats to look after during the summer holidays (fortunately, that survived its ordeal and went back to school the following term completely intact). Finally, when I was aged 16, she relented and let me have a dog.

Someone we knew who lived nearby had a dog that was going to have pups. So, when he was old enough to leave his mother, my dad brought home a puppy, which was absolutely terrified.

Of course, I didn’t know what was going to happen next. I was wearing what was, at the time, my favourite red skirt with white polka dots. The puppy was all black, a cross between a poodle and a Labrador, and some other unspecified canine parent. His hair was short and straight, like a Lab’s, which is what he resembled most closely, except smaller. We named him Barney. Actually, my mother named him Barney, after a boy on whom I had a crush at the time.

Barney sat on my lap, shaking with fear, as he emptied his bladder all over me. I was absolutely horrified, and quickly handed him to my Mum, who I might add, laughed long and hard, while I went to change and rinse out my skirt. That may have been the first time that happened to me, but it was not the last.

I got married when I was 20, but Barney could not move in with me straight away—we weren’t allowed pets in our first home. After a couple of years, my husband and I got a job managing a pub, and Barney moved in. One day, very soon after, he got out of the house by mistake. He wasn’t wearing a collar because it made him scratch. I never saw him again and I didn’t ever find out what had happened to him.

I missed Barney, so soon after; I got another dog, Gemma, a rescue from the RSPCA. Gemma and I were together for the rest of her life, although I did have another dog as well at one time, before my husband and I parted company. When Gemma, had to be put to sleep (euthanized, as they say nowadays), the man of the moment advised me not to get another dog because my lifestyle was not appropriate. (Gemma had been okay with my long working hours because we had been together for a long time and she knew the drill, and she was old and slept a lot.) I was broken hearted anyway when she died, and knew I couldn’t replace her, so his advice was easy to follow.

Nine years elapsed after Gemma’s death, with neither animals nor man to share my life—the “man of the moment” had very firmly left. I was lonely…

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About the Creator

Susan Shirley

Ok, a bit about me…

I started writing semi-professionally in 2012 (semi because it's part-time, professionally because I get paid for some of my work.) I write anonymously for various sites and will be publishing my first book very soon...

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